Tales of Skyrim
by TheMightyBrotato
Summary: This is my story. I own nothing. Except this story.
1. The Beginning

_Martin Septim, it's cold out here_ , thought Marcurio as he walked out of the pub. The fierce, howling wind managed to travel it's happy arse from the Jerall Mountains to Riften, and seemed to take delight in blasting him with it's fury. But other than the wind, there was one other insignificant thought buzzing around in Marcurio's head: _Why the Oblivion is it always Autumn_. And that's exactly why the Arcane University sent him here. At least 3 years ago, when he still had a job. Marcurio thought about that long and hard as he lit up his pipe outside the Bee and the Barb. Now he was cold, jobless, and an Imperial stuck in the heart of Stormcloak territory. Even canis was illegal in Riften. But the poor bastard had nowhere else to go. He could hire a carriage, but that cost too much money. He could get a job, but he was, again, an Imperial in the heart of Stormcloak territory. He could get family help. Sure they had tons of money, but they wholeheartedly cut him off when he told them he wanted to go to Arcane. 8 years and a mage's degree there, and still nothing. All he could do is wait for some dumb hero to hire him for his destruction spells and be off.

That very same day Marcurio had his first stroke of luck in 2 years. Some dumb hero actually escaped from Mehrunes' door in Helgen. He didn't know this, because he didn't care. Sure, dragons. Wooh, I don't give a single crap about this. I mean, it was obvious. Marcurio had an Apprentice's degree in Nordic History, and if you remember one thing about that class, you'd know that the "Fabled Rise of the Dragons" would happen sooner or later. Whilst the Nords in town had shocked expressions on their faces, Marc wore a sly smile, knowing that he was right all along. This he pondered about as he sat in the Bee and Barb, as Keerava poured him another glass of mead. _Damn, I've got to stop drinking this_ Marc thought as he downed his first glass of Black-Briar. It didn't even taste good, and it was owned by what was more of a criminal guild than a family. But oh well, you only live once. Marc was just about to buy another glass when Captain Jollis came crashing in with his troupe of dumbarses.

"Hey Scale-skin! I'd like for you to pour my men a nice, solid round of Mead. Why don't you do that for free huh? For the, uh, war effort."

Even a fool could see that Keerava was quite angry. Losing money and being called by a racial epithet aren't exactly what Argonians like. But Marc knew she was powerless against a Stormcloak captain with his nose shoved up the ass of Riften's leaders.

"Come one, Keerava! Pour them." said one of Jollis' men as she hurriedly poured 7 glasses, and proceeded to spit in each one of them secretly. What an idiot, Marc thought. Not already mind-blowingly stupid, but also drunk and pissing off the Barkeep? Priceless, Marc thought. Keeping his mind off of the drunken antics of the _Bee and Barb_ , Marc sought to review all the fire spells and incantations he learned in his head, as he had nothing else to do. He was about to think about his Fireball spell when he smelt the alcohol-heavy breath of Captain Jollis.

"So Imperial, how do you think about our "Little Crusade" or whatever the Oblivion you people call it", asked the drunken Jollis.

"Frankly, I couldn't give a flying-"

Suddenly, before Marc could finish his lovely little sentence, the doors to the pub slammed open. It was some Stormcloak messenger dressed up in some battlegear or whatnot. Quickly walking in, he approached Jollis with a slip of paper. Jollis took it, and the messenger walked out of the inn, ready to deliver his next message.

Jollis opened it up.

"No. I… I object to this. I cannot. I just…" Jollis Green-Hand of Riften walked out of the pub, no longer the champion he always held himself up to be. His little band followed him.

It just happened to be that Jollis left his note on the ground. Marc picked it up, and went back to his stool. It read:

 _Dear Captain Jollis Green-Hand_

 _Even though Ulfric may be facing execution, the rebellion must still go on. This is why you are being removed from the Stormcloak forces at this moment. We need actual men in the army, not drunken idiots whose only qualifications are having affairs with Jarls and royally pissing off everyone you can find. Not to mention the fact that you are a_ terrible _leader. Good day,_

 _Commander Korlus Even-Stone._

 _By the way, give my greetings to Leila Law-Giver. I know that you duo are "very close"._

Marc felt a smile on his face, the first in a long time.


	2. In Whiterun

Lydia looked over her day's work, proud of her accomplishment. The group of bandits that foolishly attacked her were either lying dead around her, or running off into the horizon of the cold, harsh tundra, most likely to die from the elements, the city guard, or an angry giant. Either/or. She looked around and saw her home city, the proud and imposing Whiterun in all of its glory, yellow and gold from the setting sun. Kneeling down to search the bandits, she gained plenty of gold, arrows, and useless gems to sell to the multiple vendors around the city. Snatching a necklace from a dead Breton archer, Lydia turned around at the sound of a harsh roar coming from the cold mountains of the south.

 _Just a bird_ , she thought as she saw a small black, winged outline over the old Barrow.

"Holy Oblivion!" she cried out, and jumped behind a pitiful shrub, as for the first time in her life she had something to fear. The rebirth of the Dragons.

Coming back, or, in this case running back to Whiterun, she dropped her gained loot behind her, caring more for her life. Looking out in the distance, she could see the dragon making a sharp turn towards the west, over by Rorikstead, and she continued to watch as it disappeared along the jagged horizon. Running at a furious breakneck pace, she finally reached Whiterun, and learned that she was not the only one who saw it. Reports were streaming from Helgen and Riverwood and saying that the first of those 2 towns, Helgen, was completely demolished by the dragon. Jarl Balgruuf, the current Jarl of Whiterun, was already sending out guards and dispatches to the different villages and farms out in the tundra as to make sure that another attack did not formulate.

"Damn," said Ulfberth, finishing his mug of mead.

"Its a shame, what happened in Helgen. Think it'll attack us?" Said Lydia, wondering about the fate of the city.

"I don't have a single clue. All I know is that my _Sales_ have been skyrocketing. Everyone's paranoid now, 'bout the damn dragon. But I'm sure Talos knows." Ulfberth spoke as he tried to get up off of the bench they were sitting on. Just then, Adrianne Avenicci walked in.

"Oh shi-"

"ULFBERTH!", Adrianne yelled, "I have told you _repeatedly_ to stop drinking, and you still do it. Why?"

"But...I just, Just its..."

"I have to work my ass off at the forge while you drink yourself into stupidity? This, this is the last time Ulfberth!" Adrianne walked out, followed by Ulfberth, trying desperately to catch up. Lydia continued drinking along with everyone else in the bar. Just another day in Skyrim.


	3. Arthimus

Arthimus Eyon looked over past the Tundra from the hills of Riverwood as he pulled his sword out of the chest of an attacking wolf.

"Fuck dragons! Fuck you Skyrim!" yelled the crude half Nord/half Imperial. Most would say the same, if not worse, in his shoes. After having his head on a chopping block, escaping during a freak dragon attack, fighting Stormcloak rebels in the sewers of a tiny, now destroyed town, and travelling to places he'd hever been (all in one day) are not the things a person would like to go through. Especially Arthimus. Walking along the road from Riverwood to Whiterun, he stopped to pick some flowers, not only because he liked nature, but because he was trying to wash out the scenes of today from his head. Arthimus kept walking, and after going through some serene switchbacks through the foothills, came upon the cold, harsh tundra.

"At least there's mead", smiling to himself as he looked at a small meadery that seemed to be randomly dropped by the divines. Being a very one-track person, he walked past multiple things that looked exciting, like rivers and nirnroot and giant slayings. All he wanted to do was go to the city that lay dominating in front of him, find a Akatosh-damn bed, and tell some dumb "Balgruuf" that this place called Helgen was attacked by some nightmarish creature who destroyed the town, along with a whole contingent of Imperial guards, a brewery, some pristine forest, and his own sanity.

Walking to the front gate of the city, he was stopped by a guard.

"Hold it right there. The city's closed. Official business only." Wow, Arthimus thought. Someone has a stick shoved up their rear.

"I came to tell Ball... Jarl Ball-something that Helgen was destroyed by a dragon" he said, trying to remember Hadvar's words.

"Oh wow," said the guard, "it's not like we have already gotten dozens of people saying the same thing."

"Well, mister guard. I was there, at Helgen. So would you mind letting me in? That would be nice."

The guard let him in, "accidentally" tripping him on the way. Whiterun was not very impressive on the inside. A pitiful collection of wooden buildings lay on the inside of the walls. A handful of market stalls and stores were on the inside. Several guards patrolled the corridors and corners of the "city". Walking through the main street, he saw a huge, dead tree in the middle of the city.

"Wow, what a rathole of a city" he said to himself. In the small square surrounding the tree, some religious zealot was screaming out texts from the Book of Aedra. Somewhere in the city was a skooma deal. But he didn't care, significantly. He just needed to see Balgruuf, and this thought repeated itself as he climbed up the stairs that led up to the Jarl's palace.


End file.
